The Magic of December
by Godricgal
Summary: So a Tonksian Christmas has taken many forms which have seeded memories both bitter and oh-so-very sweet, but I don't think any can top this one... Set on Christmas Day during Deathly Hallows.


_**Originally written for the MetamorFicMoon Winter Wonderland Advent at Live Journal.** _

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**The Magic of December**

Over my lifetime Christmas has come in a variety of packages: when I was little it was Christmas Eves at Gran's house with mince pies and a glass of milk, watching Mary Poppings on the television; Christmas Days were magical extravaganzas with presents and more food than one little girl and her parents could possibly eat in a fortnight, let alone a single day. In my first year of training I worked on Christmas Day, spent it sitting on top of an aircraft hanger guarding a shipment of Flying Carpets that had, ironically, been smuggled into the country in a bloody aeroplane, of all things. It's Ministry policy to make new Auror recruits work on Christmas day in their first year in order to 'accustom you to always working when others are not.' Turns out, Mum and Dad got accustomed to it, too, so in my second year I spent Christmas with Ed, a fellow trainee, because they'd booked a cabin in Switzerland for the week, under the false illusion that I'd be standing guard over Swimming Sofas in Derby or some such nonsense.

Two years ago I spent a large portion of Christmas night kissing Remus in front of the fire in my sitting room, his lips on my skin burning hotter than any flame, and later on he took me to bed for the first time and I found myself with a new benchmark for what makes a truly magical Christmas. Which, of course, was one of the reasons last Christmas was such an all-encompassing depressing disaster; I was back at work, but even Death Eaters take Christmas off, and every empty street was a reminder that people were with their loved ones when I was not. Even knowing Remus was safe and enjoying a Molly Weasley-cooked Christmas dinner was not enough of a reassuring thought to stop me crying into my pillow while memories wrapped around me in cruel comfort.

So a Tonksian Christmas has taken many forms which have seeded memories both bitter and oh-so-very sweet, but I don't think any can top this one:

I've never spent Christmas with a little person growing inside me and a husband who's so overwhelmed with the romanticism of a first married Christmas with a baby on the way that he's re-conjuring fairy lights and baubles every hour to create what he calls a 'proper festive tone'.

It couldn't really be more different from last Christmas, except perhaps for the fact that for two years running I've not had a measure of control over my appearance, but this time I'm not complaining. I think it's funny that last year I was stuck in a body I couldn't change because of Remus' absence, and this year I'm stuck with a rounded middle very much as the result of his presence; I told him that yesterday, I don't think he found it as amusing as me but he did have a chuckle.

I'm just beginning to wonder where he's got to -- I've been propped up on the sofa with the wireless humming in the background for a good hour. I'm supposed to be resting, according to Remus; I've told him I'm six months pregnant and not a bloody invalid but he's quite insistent, and it is a lot of fun to watch him bustle around the place like a flaming house-elf, and I can't say I don't like being looked after by him, so I've kept complaining to the barest minimum and really only when he's in need of a bit of teasing, which I think he is now because seriously, who takes an hour to prepare Christmas dinner for two and a half when you've got magic to hand?

"Remus?" My hand curls around my wand, which is tucked under the cushion of the settee.

There is shuffling in the kitchen and I giggle slightly as I watch him in my mind's eye, hurrying to put down whatever it is that's caught his attention and making a stumbling journey across the obstacle-heavy kitchen, in his haste to attend to his poor, encumbered wife.

The moment he appears in the doorway, a glint of concern, mixing with question in his eyes, I flick my wand in his direction, and then I laugh. He glances down in surprise and then with a frown as he tries to read the words that I've emblazoned across the apron I've Conjured and hung around his neck. I laugh harder as he turns to the dresser and his frown deepens as he tries to read the words backwards (why don't mirrors show you things the right way round?) and then he takes it off and holds it up as he reads the words "This wizard wears the apron in the relationship."

"And lucky for you that I do," he says with a chuckle. "Or I would wear one if I were a wizard who makes a mess in the kitchen, which would also be lucky for you if you were the kind of witch who did the laundry."

I stick my tongue out at him as he folds the apron over the back of the arm chair and walks towards me, settling on the edge of the sofa, at my side.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine -- just wondering where you'd got to, you're not cooking a three course meal out there, are you?"

He laughs softly, and raises a hand to gently push the hair back from my face. "Sorry, I thought you were napping, so I picked up that report Arthur sent over yesterday."

Immediately, I feel sobered. "I wish you hadn't," I say, and I do because I don't want him thinking about that today -- I don't want it to touch us when so little is perfect but this is, right here, in our little enclave where we're safe; time is so precious and after last year, I find myself conscious of anything that might sully the hours and days we do have when we can choose not to concern ourselves with what's happening out there.

It's odd, I went into my training, decided to be an Auror, knowing that my life would be spent working for others to have peace of mind -- never stopping to care that my own life would be disrupted by force of -- I can only call it evil, we're now embattled with, but I also never expected to find someone like Remus, someone I wanted to share my life with, raise a child with, and if I'm honest, while I could never abandon the cause to which I've given myself, I do now resent it, because it's such a big factor in our life that it shapes it by its very nature and yet, I cannot give it up, even though I'm now no longer a Ministry employee, and very much a volunteer.

Remus looks contrite as he apologies, and, not for the first time I worry that perhaps this ideal of separation I have is going too far, because rationally I know that it can't be -- not yet, one day, perhaps; but I also know that he understands, though I think it frustrates him sometimes, maybe it makes him worry, too, because me and my ideals have given him cause for a lot of doubt in the past.

"Me too," I say. "I just don't want you worrying about that if we don't have to."

"I only read it because Arthur attached a note saying that it was nothing serious; but it's finished now, and there's nothing more to be done on the matter." While he's been talking his hands have been busy rearranging my t-shirt, which had ridden up, exposing a fair bit of skin; he's pulled it down firmly and tucked it in, almost as the baby needs the t-shirt to stay warm.

"Good. How long will dinner be?" I'm not asking because I'm hungry, but because I'm warm and comfy and I think I'd like my husband to lie beside me on the sofa while we watch fairy lights twinkle in the corner of the room and talk about how nice it is to spend Christmas together, alone, and what next Christmas will be like with tree that harbours presents for three.

"About an hour before I need to start dishing up," he says, which is perfect.

"Lie with me? And I want a kiss, too."

"Demanding, aren't you, in expectant motherhood?" Remus teases.

"Well, while you might be house-wizard extraordinaire, I am growing a whole other person, and it's tiring work." I reply as he nudges me sideways on the couch to make room. It's a few moments before we're arranged ourselves: him on his back with one arm around me and me on my side with my head on his shoulder; it won't be long before I'm too big to lie like this, I think. His hand makes short work of undoing his earlier efforts to cover me up, and comes to rest under my t-shirt, lying flat and firm in protectiveness over our baby; he cups my face with his free hand and the look in his eyes is one of such happiness that it takes my breath away.

I'm grateful when he kisses me because there are some feelings so intense that they need outwards expression and if I couldn't find it in returning his kiss, I'm sure it would have been in tears, and that would have sent Remus into conniptions. Whoever said that marriage dulls romance is clearly out of their senses, or hasn't had the good fortune to marry a man like Remus but I'm laid bare by his touch every time, the taste of him, the feel of his lips moving with mine, the way his hands tighten and yield in a private rhythm.

When it's so easy to be unsure of my life because of the uncertainty that haunts it by its very nature; it's thrilling, energising and oh-so-very comforting to know that certainty lies with the strength of iron in the love that exists between us, and for the hope we have for the future, for the promise that lies in the expectation of a child.

If I'm going to allow myself any negative thought today, it's grief for my mother, who's spending the night at her mother-in-law's to give Remus and me the space we need to find hope for next year's Christmas in each other's arms while she mourns the husband she knows, in her heart of hearts, she's already lost.

But that's why I've been so intent on enjoying today for what we can have, because of what Dad's forsaken in the name of keeping us safe, for what Mum's given up in pursuit of giving us the opportunity to make these precious memories.

And that love that they have for each other, for me, I can finally understand because I've lived it, for Remus and for our child, and what I wouldn't do for them would not fill the merest scrap of parchment, so I kiss him and keep on kissing him because I can't not.

It's a little over an hour later when we're sitting down to dinner in the kitchen; conventionally speaking it's a less that romantic setting because despite what he said earlier, Remus has created a frightful mess, he must have used every saucepan and bowl in the house, but he's lit a candle and laid a table cloth, conjured a sprig of mistletoe to hang between us which he's using at every opportunity, and to me it couldn't be more perfect.

There's sage and onion stuffing and little sausages wrapped in bacon, red currant jelly and sprouts. We have a single cracker which Remus must have conjured and we pull together half way through the meal; it goes off with a sharp crack and two hats flutter to the table; I pop mine on instantly with a grin and insist that Remus wears his, too. He looks funny in a red paper hat, but for some reason it makes me insanely happy to see. He's made up jokes that are truly awful, but we both laugh anyway, and spend the rest of the meal chatting and laughing as though we are like any other newlywed couple sharing their first Christmas.

Afterwards, Remus banishes me back to the living room and the settee while he clears up and sorts out the pudding. I didn't know he'd made a pud and it seems there is going to be no end to the reminders of what a lucky girl I am to have such a husband.

It's not long before the clatter and bang of plates and pans in the kitchen has quietened and Remus has appeared with two steaming bowls in his hands. He hands me one and places the other on the coffee table, then bustles around the room, stoking the fire, re-conjuring the odd bauble for the tree before returning with a blanket which he throws over my lap and takes his place beside me.

The sweet is delicious, mince pies with hot brandy butter mixed with cold cream; I hope there's some left over for tomorrow. When it's finished, Remus sends the bowls to the kitchen and we both snuggle down under the blanket; it's so cosy and warm, I think I must never want to move as the music from the wireless that floats the background, the merry twinkles glittering from the tree in the corner, and Remus' steady breathing all lull me into a post-dinner sleepiness.

Maybe next year we won't have to pretend that everything is as comfortable as it feels today. Perhaps it'll all be over, then, and we won't have to cover up that we're desperately afraid -- for ourselves, for each other, for the baby, and for our friends and family.

I wonder where Dad is, if he's even still alive, whether he's had a meal today and found a little warmth, or if he's thinking about us and regretting his decision to leave. I hope Mum's day's not been too bad, it'll have been good for her to spend some time with Gran, they've always got on very well and Gran's level headed where Mum can be such a hand-wringer.

I ask Remus but he doesn't answer me with commitment, and what can he say? Nothing that wouldn't be false reassurance feeding false hope, so he just holds me tighter and tells me how glad he is that we at least managed to have a happy day ourselves. Really, we can't ask for much more than that and we're lucky to have what we do.

I think it must be about eight o'clock when I wake up, and I'm still tucked under the blanket and tight in Remus' arms; he doesn't know I'm awake yet, and he's watching the flames flicker in the grate, a gentle, contented smile graces the corners of him mouth and it makes my heart sing, to see him so utterly relaxed and undeniably happy. The thought that it might be described as domestic bliss makes me giggle because the idea that anyone could have such a thing with me is absurd; Remus looks at me, a little in surprise because doubtless he'd thought me still asleep, and a little in question.

"What amuses, sleepyhead?" he says.

A huge yawn overtakes me and I have to wriggle out of Remus' arms to stretch my arms above my head. "Nothing, really," I reply with a shrug when I've settled back against him.

"Must have been something."

And I thought I was the persistent one in this relationship. "I'm just happy," I tell him. "I didn't think we'd get the chance to do this, and I certainly never expected that we'd have all this." I sweep my hand down, across my body and between us to show him what I mean.

"Nor did I," he says, tightening his arms around me.

None of this, falling in love, the baby, have come at a convenient moment, and we've talked about it, a lot, especially lately, and I'm now fairly certain we're both of the same mind, that perhaps there isn't a right time for these things, or even if there is, there isn't much we can do now but make the most of it and feel so very blessed for it. And after everything, it's so very good to know that there is certainty in something; some might say it's a tenuous sort of certainty when it is to risk one's life to set outside the front door, or, as my mother has discovered perhaps more cruelly than even Remus, when your government works against you with sickening and mindless prejudice.

But it's something, more than something, a tether that grounds with a stronger force than anything which is truly tangible, but its elements are there in touch and comfort, in laughter and understanding, and the abiding force that stems from a deep love and the connection of having created something truly precious.

Remus is kissing me now, and the sensations are too much for further poetic musings, which have, I've found, come to me with an increased frequency that is exponential to my expanding waistline. I let my head fall back to the pillow he placed on the settee for me earlier in the day, and his lips find my neck, while his hands explore at their own pace.

It's not long before I have to ask him to take me to bed; in other circumstances I'd be more than content to let events take their course on the sofa, in front of the fire, but while I can just about manage to lie on my side with my head on Remus' shoulder, making love here is just a little beyond me now.

He helps me up and leads me across the room by the hand, his demeanour so focused and intent that I feel a little bit weak at the knees.

It's the second Christmas that I'll spend in Remus' arms as Christmas Day fades and Boxing Day breaks; my third Christmas spent loving him so much that it hurts, but my first knowing that I'll never again spend it alone, or drinking mulled mead out of pint glasses with Ed from training, and perhaps I'll never spend it with both my parents again, but next year Remus and I will be the parents, and the magic of December will be ours to rediscover once more.

_**The End**_

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**_I seem to be running with theme of food-related review bribes, so how about, this time, anyone who reviews will receive one well-trained, attractive werewolf to prepare, cook and, of course, share next year's Christmas dinner, as well as many thanks from me. :)_**


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